


My Parents Are Fakes!

by Thistlepaw



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Amnesia - or is it, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlepaw/pseuds/Thistlepaw
Summary: After a car crash, Craig wakes up in hospital - with a completely different set of parents than the ones he remembers! Everyone thinks it's just amnesia, but what the hell is going on here? Craig feels like he's going insane. Nobody believes him - except for this spazzy blonde kid at his new school...
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	1. You're not my real parents!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! And welcome to my shiny bright new AU! For the past year and a bit, I've been writing a behemoth of a Creek story (fifty chapters, with _so much_ amazing fan art and an epilogue) called Ghosting For Beginners. As I prepare to wave goodbye to that AU with the last chapter of a "what happened after" story called The Duck Prince, I decided to try something a little different. So - this story is set in the 90's, which means there are no cell phones, not much of an internet, and that when someone disappears, it's a _lot_ harder to find them... 
> 
> The song that Craig is listening to here is this nihilistic piece of loveliness here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZ0xxHOzmzI
> 
> And a huge shoutout to sonofthanatos by the way, who's been helping me with plotting and proofreading!

The road is getting bumpy, as Dad swerves the car off the highway. They’re going past actual farm houses now; which does nothing to improve Craig’s mood. It’s been hours since Mom stopped leaning over the back of the passenger seat to talk to him, though. So at least there’s that. There has never been a time in his _life_ where Craig has wanted to be left alone more. He stares straight ahead into the darkness, his ear-buds firmly shoved in; his disc-man playing the same Nick Cave song over and over: _People they ain’t no good, people they ain’t no good…_  
Sure, it’s kind of a sweeping statement, but it’s one he can definitely get behind. Crammed sideways into the back seat since his sister won’t be joining them for another two weeks, Craig’s braced his back against the window and stretched his long legs out where Tricia’s legs would normally go. The heating in their ancient Ford Station Wagon has long since died, and his parents can’t afford to pay for its reincarnation; so Craig just dragged down his duvet from his old room, still in its cover. Dark blue, covered in little swirling galaxies. He’s wearing his seatbelt over it, obviously, because Craig Tucker may be pissed as hell, but he’s no idiot. The anger squirms inside of him like an evil bellyache, and he’s not even sure who he’s the angriest with. With his parents, for both landing jobs at the Bank of South Park and basically uprooting his entire life? With Tricia, who gets to spend a whole extra week with grandma while Craig will have to haul all of _her_ shit inside their new house when the van arrives, on top of his own? Or with Thomas – not that Craig wants to think about his ex. But right on cue, Nick Cave croons, _To our love, send back all the letters,_ and Craig can’t help but let his hand drop, run his fingers over the ratty old backpack he’s stuffed full of all the things his former boyfriend had forced Craig to take back before he left. _To our love, a Valentine in blood._ All the secretive love-letters, written “To T” and signed simply “C”, because the hell if Craig could deal with people finding out about them. Every last note and present, even that smooth, heart-shaped stone he’d found and pressed into Thomas’ hand, that time they went out to the pond to skim rocks at night. _To our love, let all the jilted lovers cry, that people they just ain’t no good._ All shoved into a bulging plastic bag with the Sephora logo on it, because Thomas’ mom is a regional manager there, and their house is always full of makeup samples and Sephora bags. Craig had had no choice but to empty his school bag out and hide it all in there, before anybody could start asking awkward questions like _Why are you buying makeup._  
“It’s your choice,” Thomas had said, making the whole thing _Craig’s_ fault somehow. They’d gone for this really long walk and Thomas had issued him an ultimatum; told him they could do long-distance in exchange for _one_ thing – that Craig would tell his parents the truth. About the two of them; about himself. But that price had been too high. Coming out hadn’t been so hard for Thomas; it was just him and his mom, and there is no kinder, more human being in the world than Thomas’ mom. Craig, on the other hand, has no idea how his parents will react, if they ever find out they have a gay son. There’s a part of him that _wants_ to tell them, he just _can’t,_ and he’d tried to explain all this to Thomas at the time. The words just hadn’t come out right, because Craig’s not good at talking about feelings and stuff like that.  
Now, Craig drums his fingers against the faded leather logo on the front, wondering what he’s even supposed to _do_ with all this stuff. The sum total of his love; discarded and thrust back at him like it was… recycling, or something. But he can’t just chuck it all away; Craig knows he’ll never be able to move on if he doesn’t dispose of these things properly. He’s pissed enough to burn it all, or so he tells himself, but it’s not like his parents won’t notice if he makes a bonfire in their new back yard.  
The dirt road has given way to actual streets by now, though it’s no less of a bumpy ride. As the disc-man hisses and spins, starting the song over, they go past the bulky façade of a U-Store-It, before Dad abruptly breaks and swears. _People, they ain’t no good…_  
“Roadblock,” Dad grunts, swerving the car, “Typical."  
_I think that’s well understood,_ the song goes on, as Dad takes them past some fairly sketchy-looking buildings, and then a second roadblock. Do people even live here, Craig wonders, and he can see Mom starting to fidget in the passenger seat. Not many things frighten his mom. _You can see it everywhere you look. People just ain’t no good._  
“If we double back,” Mom begins, but then the other car slams into them. And the whole world turns white. 

It’s the most annoying sound in the world. This high-pitched, persistent bleeping that just will not stop. Alarm clock? If he can open his eyes, he can turn it off, Craig decides, but his eyelids are so damn heavy.  
“Craig,” a voice is saying – a woman’s voice. “Craig, are you awake?”  
“Mm,” he mutters, raising his hand to rub his eyes. But his left hand, his dominant hand, is so cold and heavy. And there’s something attached to his right hand. Craig’s suddenly wide awake, because this is a hospital bed, because there’s a drip sticking out of his right hand, sending waves of pain up to his elbow when he jerks upright. And his left arm, oh shit, is encased in a cast up to the elbow. That pain is only a dull, sick throbbing under his skin though – for now.  
A black woman in hospital scrubs is suddenly there, clicking her tongue as she pushes him back down into the mattress. “Try to relax, honey,” she says. “You were in an accident. Can you tell me your name?”  
“Craig,” he croaks; his voice all dry and scratchy. The woman – the nurse – sticks a straw in his mouth, and Craig drinks as fast as he can without choking. Some kind of vaguely lemon-flavored squash. It’s too sweet. It tastes amazing. “Craig Tucker,” he says, sounding more normal now, once he’s drained the glass and spat the straw back out. Now that he knows to be careful, he brings his right hand up to his head. His fingertips brush against a bandage.  
“Oh, thank God!” Craig realizes there’s some Hispanic lady sitting by his bedside. Her dark hair is pinned back with a barrette, and she grabs his hand between both of hers. For some reason he notices that they’ve been painted a deep, almost purplish red. Mom wouldn’t be seen dead, Craig thinks groggily, with a tacky colour like that.  
“Well, that’s a relief!” Over by the door there’s a tall (though nowhere near as tall as Craig’s dad) blonde guy with square glasses and a moustache. He’s smiling, and he sure seems friendly enough, but something about this guy makes Craig hope he stays right where he is.  
There’s no sign of his parents, and the sudden understanding of what that might mean is enough for Craig’s breath to hitch up. “My mom and dad,” he begs, “Are my mom and dad okay?”  
The Hispanic blinks. “Craig,” she says, with a lilting accent, reaching out to stroke the side of his face, “We _are_ your mom and dad.”  
“No,” he says, his voice quivering, “No way!” Craig jerks back from this strange woman’s touch. “You’re not my real parents!”  
“Listen, son,” the guy with the moustache and glasses starts across the floor, and Craig instinctively pulls back even further, so he can feel the rails of the hospital bed digging into his back through the bunched-up, flimsy pillow. “They say you hit your head pretty hard in the crash, you know? Your memories are probably just…” He smiles, but it’s not reassuring at all – more like this guy has practiced smiling in a mirror. “Just a bit scrambled up.”  
“Hey,” Craig is getting angry now, “I think I’d know what my own parents look like!”  
The Hispanic lady turns away, covering her mouth with her hand like she’s about to cry. But this is insane, she’s not…!  
“Don’t go upsetting your poor mother now,” the nurse tells him, pushing Craig back down into the bed. “You’ve all been through enough tonight. When you’ve had some sleep –”  
“The hell with that,” Craig yells, and yanks the drip out, needle and all. Blood sprays out of his hand in a big red arc, and it takes them all completely by surprise. He vaults out of bed, bare feet slapping unsteadily against the icy floor, and almost topples over. But the panic gives him superpowers, and Craig runs – somehow, he runs – out into a deserted hospital hallway. It’s lined with empty beds and equipment, which he can grab onto for support as he half staggers, half flies, towards the bank of elevators at the far end. All this movement must have jarred his left arm, because the throbbing suddenly escalates to white-hot, buzzing pain. Still – that doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting out of here.  
Behind him, people are shouting and running, so waiting for the lift is suddenly not an option anymore – but the stairs are right there. And they wouldn’t expect him to run _up,_ right? Craig flings himself up the stairs, backless robe flapping open behind him, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. He’s been leaving a trail of blood, but if the trail stops –  
A hand grabs his elbow and pulls, and in the end, that’s all it takes. Craig falls backwards, right into the arms of the man with glasses. He almost knocks them both over. The guy grunts, but finds his footing, and he’s strong. Now he’s got Craig pinned, and it’s too late by the time he thinks of using the cast as a weapon.  
“Let go of me, let go,” Craig screams, as the panic finally boils over, “You’re not my dad!”  
“Calm down, son,” Glasses Guy says, and his lips part in a self-satisfied little smirk, showing off the gold crown on one of his upper teeth. He knows he’s won.  
“Craig, Dios mio, you mustn’t scare us like that!” The Hispanic lady has finally caught up to them, and now she grabs Craig’s face between both her hands. Her nails dig into his cheeks, and he tries to twist his face away – not my mom, not my mom – but Glasses Guy is holding him too tight for that.  
“Let’s,” The nurse is there too, bent over with her hands on her knees and panting, “Let’s get you back,” She straightens up, fanning her face, “Back into bed, Craig. It would probably be best if he spends the night…”  
“Ah,” the Glasses Guy says, raising his hand. “If Craig’s not seriously hurt, I’m afraid we can’t…”  
Of course we can’t afford it, Craig wants to yell, but he bites his lip instead. Okay, so these people did their research, figured out just how broke his family is. Saying he doesn’t believe them is clearly getting him nowhere; the nurse believes this random couple over him – and why wouldn’t she? For all she knows, Craig hit his head in the crash, and got amnesia or some shit. And anyway, grownups always back each other up. But if these people have taken his parents’ place – and why the hell would anybody want to do that? – then they must know what happened to his _real_ parents, right?  
The words burn in his throat, but what choice does he have? “I’m sorry, Mom,” Craig chokes out, “Sorry Dad. I guess I’m… feeling a little confused.”  
And bam, once the magic words have been spoken, they all stop acting like Craig is crazy. All of a sudden, the nurse is assuring him that it’s completely normal to feel disoriented after a car crash, and his fake mom starts talking about getting Craig his clothes and shoes back. Even Glasses Guy, aka Fake Dad, loosens his hold a little; though he doesn’t actually let go of Craig at all; he’s basically frog-marching Craig back to that hospital room.  
Meanwhile, Craig’s mind is spinning, because what the hell _is_ going on here anyway? 

Their new house – the house Mom and Dad bought, not these two assholes – is on a quiet suburban streets lined with hedges and streetlights. That turns out to be a good thing, because it means Craig’s fake dad doesn’t run over the half-naked boy who’s standing in their driveway.  
“Shit,” Glasses Guy yells, braking hard enough to jar Craig’s broken arm and make him hiss with pain, before slamming down the horn. Whatever they put in that IV, it’s long since worn off.  
The noise instantly wakes the other boy up, and he goes from eerily calm to screaming his head off – screaming like this is some kind of sound battle between him and the Tucker family’s now dented Ford Station Wagon.  
In the glare of the headlights, Craig can see that this kid – broad-shouldered and brown-haired – is wearing a rain coat with the hood up, over a pair of boxers and a green T-shirt. Before he just plops down on his ass, that is, blinking like an owl caught in a flashlight beam.  
He looks like he might be Craig’s own age – that and he looks confused as hell, mouth opening and closing soundlessly while Fake Dad keeps the horn blaring. All along the street, there are lights coming on behind the curtains.  
“Will you stop!” All of a sudden, there’s a guy Dad’s age – Craig’s real dad, that is; Fake Dad is younger – climbing through his own flower beds so he can get to the kid; trench coat flapping open over his striped pyjamas. They’re so obviously father and son, even though the old guy’s smaller and wearing glasses. “He’s sleepwalking,” he goes on, waving both hands at the car like he hasn’t quite realized it’s already stopped, or that his kid is awake now. Awake- _ish,_ anyway.  
Maybe those two can’t see into the car very well, but in the rearview mirror, Craig can see his fake parents’ faces all too clearly. His real mom and dad would be worried; they’d be getting out and checking the kid over, offering to help. But these two just look pissed off. So Craig clumsily pops his door open right-handed – God, having his arm in a sling is such a pain in the ass – and climbs out, holding onto the car door for balance.  
“Are you okay,” he says, to the shell-shocked looking brown-haired kid, holding his right hand towards him. Now that he’s out of the car, Craig can see that he’s also wearing rubber boots, and recognise the Adidas logo on his chest.  
The kid stares at Craig for a second, before he takes his hand. “Thanks,” he says hesitantly – not like he isn’t sure about letting Craig help him up; more like he’s trying to remember how to talk. “Uh, I’m Clyde? I wear clothes sometimes,” he adds; with an embarrassed little laugh. And for some reason, that’s all it takes for Craig to decide he likes him. Clyde doesn’t actually let Craig pull that much – it’s more like he bounds to his feet, and Craig’s hand is just there as a reminder of which way is up.  
Meanwhile, it seems the adults aren’t warming to each other much at all. “I could’ve run him over,” Fake Dad is saying, leaning out of the window he’s rolled down. “You need to lock your doors at night, man!”  
Even in his pyjamas, Clyde’s father bristles. “What a wonderful idea,” he says, tugging on the sleeve of Clyde’s raincoat. “It’s just nuts that I’d never thought about it. Come on, Clyde,” he goes on, tugging again, and nodding his head towards their house. “Let’s get you back inside.”  
“Sorry, Dad,” Clyde mutters, before he leads the way around Craig’s parents’ car and up his own driveway. This is when Craig realizes that he forgot to introduce himself, but it would be weird to yell it over the hedge now.  
“Asshole,” Craig’s fake dad growls from the front seat.  
Takes one to know one, Craig thinks. Slinging both his backpacks over his right shoulder, he abandons his bedding in the car for now, and follows the strange couple inside. It’s funny, he was telling himself the whole way to South Park that at least he’d get to choose his room and Tricia would just have to take the last bedroom – how important that had seemed.  
Of course, the house is empty. The previous owners have left their fridge behind – unplugged, which is annoying, but it’s not like they’ve got anything to put in it. Craig’s real mom was planning to drive round the area and look for convenience store once they’d unloaded their bags, but his fake parents wouldn’t have got the memo. Everything’s bound to be closed by now, anyway.  
He trudges up the stairs with their worn-down grey carpet, and he doesn’t even care that there’s no food. It’s ridiculous, because he’s about to spend the night in a strange house with two people who, if Craig is being completely honest with himself, kind of scare him. But he’s so bone tired that he already knows he’s going to sleep like the dead. Tomorrow, though – tomorrow he needs to figure this shit out.  
I need to call Grandma, Craig decides firmly. There are no phones in this house either; but maybe he can borrow the phone next door. Tomorrow.


	2. A fate worse than death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna come back and write up some proper notes in the morning. But for now?
> 
> I have two words for you: Shy Kenny.

Tweek instantly knows this is the new kid. South Park isn’t exactly a teeming metropolis; you pretty much recognize everyone in school. Every single boring face. But this kid, with his navy blue backpack dangling off one arm and the other resting in a sling, he seems… interesting. He’s tall and lean, wearing a zip-up hoodie (also navy blue) and black jeans that just make his long legs look even longer. He’s also scowling under that blue chullo hat he must’ve forgotten to take off, as he shoves textbook after textbook into his new locker one-handed. Tweek, who just happens to have the locker next to his, keeps sneaking little glances over at him; because even when he’s scowling, the new kid’s kind of good-looking.   
Would it be weird to say hi? This is kind of his perfect chance, now that he thinks about it, and maybe it would be weirder _not_ to say hi, because if he says hi later, the new kid will wonder why Tweek didn’t say it when they were standing shoulder to shoulder – or rather, shoulder to nose, because Tweek’s not exactly tall – before first bell.   
Maybe if he says hi now, they can be friends. And if he waits, maybe Stan and those assholes will snap the new kid up first, which would be a tragedy when you think about it. The new kid doesn’t _look_ like an asshole, Tweek thinks, so then he’d probably be massively unhappy if he hung out with Stan’s gang; and Tweek isn’t letting his own past experience cloud his judgement _at all._ It doesn’t even _matter_ that the new kid’s handsome; Tweek would want to save anybody from that, because...  
“It’s a fate worse than death!”   
As soon as he hears those words spoken out loud, Tweek realizes _he_ was the one who went and said it. And he wasn’t exactly being quiet, either. All along the row of lockers, there are kids rolling their eyes at him, there’s even a half-hearted “Shaddup, Tweek,” from the far end of the hall.   
“What is?”  
It takes Tweek a second to process this – that the tall, cool new kid is actually talking to _him_ – and when it does register, he can feel himself turning bright tomato red. “Oh Jesus,” he groans, shaking his head – why did he have to go and screw up so badly?   
Now that they’re looking right at each other, Tweek can see that the new kid has brown eyes. His face is kind of long, but hello cheekbones; and he’s got a nice tan going on.   
Not that Tweek’s staring or anything. “What’s what,” he says, rather intelligently.   
“What’s a fate worse than death?” His voice is flat, and a little nasal, which kind of makes it sound like the new kid is supremely bored. He doesn’t even _look_ that interested; he may be staring right at Tweek, but those brown eyes are a million miles away.   
“It’s… a long story?” Tweek tries for a friendly smile, but he probably just looks ill. “I’m Tweek,” he goes on, feeling the heat spread through his cheeks. “I… have no self-control. Hi.”   
“Craig,” the new kid replies, and whatever he was thinking about a second ago, he must be done with it, because now Tweek is squirming under the full force of his unflinching stare. “Craig Tucker. You in Sophomore year?”  
“Yeah that’s where me and my big mouth… attend,” Tweek answers lamely, and then he bites his lip so he won’t actually go and laugh. “So, ah…” Small talk, small talk, Jesus, think of something, _ah!_ “So how’d you break your arm, anyway? At least it’s not your right one, eh?”   
“I’m left-handed,” Craig Tucker replies, as his eyebrows disappear under his hat.   
Tweek feels his bottom jaw start to sag, and quickly shuts his mouth with a loud clack of teeth. “That is… unfortunate,” he says, and immediately regrets it, because not even his grandpa talks like that!   
But then – the impossible happens. The new kid raises an eyebrow and snorts – like he thought what just Tweek said was funny?! “Yeah,” he drawls, his expression perfectly deadpan, “You could say that. I can’t even take notes like this.”  
That is unfortunate, because Tweek takes notes the way Pablo Picasso painted – minus the genius. Otherwise, lending his notes to Craig after class would have been the perfect way to get to know him. Sure, in _theory_ Tweek could go ahead and mention Token’s notes, which are so tidy and beautifully written that they belong in a museum or something, except he _knows_ Token would hate that. People are always badgering Token to copy his notes. So there’s nothing for it, really.   
Tweek takes a deep breath. “Listen, if you can decipher _my_ handwriting,” he begins, tugging on his T-shirt. But then a hand lands on his shoulder, and Tweek forgets all about holding a normal conversation and not freaking the new kid out.   
“HOLYSHITAARGH,” he yells, grabbing the first thing his grasping hand can find, which just happens to be his big green ring-binder, and swinging it at the intruder.  
But no, crap, crappity crap, it’s not an intruder at all, it’s Clyde!   
“Tweek, calm down,” Clyde is saying, rubbing the side of his face where Tweek smacked him with his binder. “It’s only me. Uh, hi again,” he adds, and suddenly he’s looking down at the floor.   
Reality itself does a summersault. “You guys _know_ each other already,” Tweek all but yells into Clyde’s ear.   
“I, ah, sleepwalked on his lawn last night,” Clyde mutters, and now his whole face is turning red. “Sorry about that, by the way.”  
Wait, so it was _Craig’s_ parents who bought the vacant house next to Clyde’s? But ugh, this is really not good. Clyde only sleepwalks when he’s stressed out, and Tweek’s got a pretty good idea about what – or who – could be interfering with Clyde’s peace of mind.   
“Dude, it’s not like you can help that shit.” Craig says that like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which Tweek totally agrees with; only he knows Clyde doesn’t see it like that. “Nice, ah, outfit, by the way.”  
Tweek is clearly missing something here. One, Clyde is wearing his usual “uniform” of football jacket over a wrinkled flannel shirt (green today), and equally wrinkled T-shirt (Guns’n’Roses, because Clyde loves sentimental bullshit rock) and jeans with a hole in one knee. Just the one hole, which always messes with Tweek’s sense of symmetry. And two, Clyde immediately starts to laugh.   
“I was wearing like, underpants and rain boots,” he snorts, by way of an explanation, grinning down at Tweek. “Uh,” he looks back at Craig, and irritatingly those two are practically the same height, “I didn’t see you on the bus this morning?”  
It’s probably just because he’s staring, because okay, fine, Tweek has been staring pretty consistently at the new kid, that he catches that weird look on Craig’s face. “Oh, that’s because… my _parents_ insisted on driving me to school,” he says, and if Tweek hadn’t just met the guy, he’d be making some pretty invasive assumptions right about now. Because that tone Craig took when he said “my parents” almost made it sound like he hates them or something. Or like… Like he’s afraid of them?   
“Hey, new kid!” Tweek feels his spine go stiff as a board at the sound of Stan Marsh’s voice. Ugh, great. At least he didn’t flinch like Clyde just did. With the inevitability of a character in any given horror movie, Tweek slowly turns around, and there he is. The legendary quarterback himself; flanked by Kyle Broflovski and Kenny McCormick – both of whom are taller; so at least the three of them look kind of symmetrical. Stan’s strutting around in his football jacket like he owns the whole school – while Clyde wears his like it’s a security blanket with sleeves, Stan wears his like it’s some kind of _robe of office_ or something. Like he’s saying, Look at me, I’m high school royalty. Meanwhile, Kyle’s got his friendly face on, which is one of those things Tweek’s really learned to dread, and Kenny just shuffles along with his hands jammed into his pockets. You can’t even _see_ Kenny’s face from this angle; he’s got his hood up like Obi Wan Kenobi.   
Craig is awesome, though. He doesn’t even _respond._ All he does is raise an eyebrow, because of course he doesn’t know who Stan _is_ yet.   
“Welcome to South Park High,” Kyle says, obviously picking up on that eyebrow. “You’re Craig, right? I’m Kyle; I’m class rep so Mr Mackie asked me to help you feel welcome here. And this is Stan…”   
“Hey,” Stan says, locking eyes with Craig.   
“… and Kenny. Kenny,” he repeats, reaching past Stan to nudge him.   
Poor Kenny, who hates being put on the spot like that, mumbles something that might have been “Hello.”   
“Okay,” Craig replies, still in that super measured tone. Like he’s just waiting for those three to walk away. He’s been maintaining eye contact with Stan long enough to make _Tweek_ start to sweat. Tweek gets the feeling Craig’s taken an instant dislike to Stan. That would be kind of cool.   
“Listen, Craig,” Stan begins, effortlessly keeping up the staring contest, “Since you’re new here, let me give you some advice. You wouldn’t want people to see you hanging out with the spazz kid –”  
“Hey,” Tweek snaps, but of course Stan ignores him, though he can see Kenny flinch a little.   
“…or the guy who killed his own mom.”   
The whole hallway abruptly goes silent, as literally everyone turns to stare at Clyde. Probably wondering if _this’ll_ be the day he finally snaps and goes after Stan. Is that what Stan was hoping for? He’d never pull this crap if Jimmy and Token were here; after all. Tweek can hear Clyde’s breath hitch, and he knows that if he so much as looks in his friend’s direction, it’s bound to kickstart the waterworks. So instead, he puffs himself up to his full height, not that this amounts to very much, and shoves his way in front of Clyde. Tweek may be short, but he’s hardly a weakling.   
“You,” Tweek growls up at Stan, holding his hand up, his thumb and forefinger only the thickness of a quarter apart, “Are _this_ close to getting a fastball special.”   
But Stan, that bastard, looks like he’s about to laugh. “I think he’s too busy _crying_ to –”   
“Dude,” Craig cuts him off, and his voice is so cold that even Tweek, who’s clearly not the one Craig is talking to, takes a step back and bumps against Clyde’s chest. “You know who I’m the least likely to hang out with? People who go around talking shit about others.” With that, Craig shoves his middle finger so close to Stan’s face that it almost goes up his nostril.   
Oh shit, Tweek thinks, because this is pretty much enough to make him fall in love on the spot. And _that_ could get seriously awkward.   
“Want me to break your other arm,” Stan asks; his voice all silky with rage, his offer of friendship instantly forgotten.   
Craig returns his stare like it’s just the two of them in here, but his voice is still the same measured monotone. “You can try.”   
That’s when the bell rings, and Tweek’s knees buckle with relief. Kyle and Kenny grab Stan by one arm each and pull him away – at least Cartman isn’t here yet! – and Craig slams his locker door shut. He’s glaring after them like he wouldn’t have minded slamming it shut on Stan’s _head._ All of a sudden, people are moving again, hurrying off to their lessons, deprived of a quick, vicious fight to start the day off right.   
“He _was_ telling the truth, though,” Clyde says, before he snorts a bunch of snot back up his nose. Tweek can finally risk looking at him, and to his immense relief, Clyde doesn’t actually look like he’s shed any tears – he just came dangerously close, back then.   
Tweek is about to tell him for like the _millionth_ time not to be stupid, but Craig beats him to it. Hey,” he says, raising his left arm inside the sling so he can point at Clyde. “You don’t owe me any kind of explanation. I mean, I practically just _met_ you.”  
Tweek has to close his eyes for a second. Deep breath through his nose. Falling for this probably very hetero guy that he’s known for all of five minutes would be _such_ a big mistake.   
“Okay,” Clyde is saying, and Tweek can hear the relief in his voice – relief and something a little bit like hero-worship. “Want me to lock that up for you?”  
“Thanks, dude.” Tweek finally opens his eyes, because it would be weird to keep them shut for much longer. He can see how Craig winces as he repositions his arm inside the sling, saying, “Having just the one good arm seriously blows.”  
“I can get your bag,” Tweek offers, and he has to shout to be heard over the second bell. “All of Sophomore year’s got homeroom now, so I know for sure we’ll be in the same classroom.”  
“Thanks, I’m good.” Craig slings his backpack over his right shoulder. There’s a single button fastened to the front pocket, with the Superman symbol on it. That’s too vague to tell Tweek if he’s a proper nerd; after all, you can buy Superman stuff literally _anywhere._ He’s pretty damn sure, for instance, that he saw Superman pyjamas the last time Mom dragged him along to Target. But hey, he’s allowed to hope.   
“Dude, I’m stronger than I look!” Tweek hopes Craig thinks he’s just offended, and not… flustered, or whatever the hell this feeling is; like he’s swallowed a whole colony of butterflies. Not like he’s gone and fallen in love like an idiot.   
“Sure,” Craig shrugs and grins down at him – he actually grins! This tall, unsmiling monolith person! And he effortlessly falls into step between Tweek and Clyde, letting them lead the way. “So, what’s a fastball special?”  
Clyde clears his throat. “That’s when I throw Tweek at people so he can punch them in the head.”   
Craig snorts, but then he looks down at Tweek again, frowning. “Oh,” he says, “I see.” 

Turns out it’s a total free-for-all when it comes to where you sit; and Tweek explains that the most popular seats are the ones at the back. Kids are squeezing past each other to get through the door first, and Craig is quietly grateful that Tweek and Clyde just go lean against the wall on either side of him. Just moving his left arm is painful; he doesn’t want to _think_ about some asshole shoving their elbow into it. And he’s so damn hungry. His fake parents may have insisted on driving him to school, but they didn’t bother getting anything for breakfast; and the cupboards had all been empty. There are a few vending machines dotted around the school, but Craig doesn’t have a lot of cash and he needs to conserve it for stuff like payphones. Maybe even an emergency bus ticket out of here…  
“…haven’t even been here ten _minutes_ and Stan Marsh already hates you,” Clyde is saying. Like this is a totally awesome thing.   
“Yeah, well,” Craig replies, raising his eyebrow, “It’s mutual. What an asshat.”  
This makes Tweek let out a big, unguarded laugh. “Dude,” he says, “I _like_ you!”   
For a few seconds, white noise fills up Craig’s entire head. What’s he supposed to _say_ to that? This blonde kid with his weird-ass nickname – he probably has some really boring-ass regular name like Nathaniel or Elijah – is being nicer to him than Craig’s really used to, but… It just so happens that he is _exactly_ Craig’s type. Small and kind of jumpy; he seems mildly nuts but thoughtlessly charming at the same time. Like Thomas without the issues. And he’s so damn cute that Craig doesn’t want to look at him – not directly, anyway. He doesn’t want to be caught staring.   
“You’ll have to p-pardon Tweek,” someone says, pulling Craig out of his thoughts, “He literally has no s-s-s…” Craig looks up from the floor – is he blushing? Shit, he hopes he isn’t blushing – and sees that two other boys have joined their little group. “No idea of how to behave around p-people,” the stuttering kid amends, shrugging. “I’m Jimmy, and that – ” he nods at the tall black kid standing next to him, “Is Token.”   
“Dude!” Tweek folds his arms and glares up at Jimmy. But his tone tells Craig that Tweek’s not really pissed. These guys are obviously friends.   
Jimmy is shorter than Craig, though not by much. He’s wearing a yellow zip-up hoodie over a grey ALF T-shirt, and leaning on a pair of crutches. They’re the kind with proper grips that sort of wrap around his muscular arms. Craig can’t help but notice that Jimmy’s legs, in contrast, look kind of spindly. So whatever is up with that, it seems to be pretty permanent.   
“I’m Craig,” he says, and of course that’s when his empty stomach has to growl.   
Token, the African-American kid, actually holds his hand out like a politician, “Nice to meet you, Craig. Sounds like you skipped breakfast?” He’s not at all bad looking, Token, with his warm brown eyes and easy-going smile. He’s got crazy good posture too, and he’s dressed sort of… unconsciously tidy; like he’s doing his best to fit in with the high school crowd but secretly has the soul of a ninety-year-old professor. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, for instance, black and white checks, but he’s buttoned it all the way up, and Craig secretly thinks that all that’s missing is a bowtie.   
“Yeah, I…” He considers it, just for a second, as he shakes Token’s hand. What if he actually told these guys, I’m living with strangers, and I don’t know where my parents are? But common sense wins out. Why should they believe him, anyway? They do seem nice, but that’s precisely why Craig needs to keep his mouth shut. “I overslept.”   
“Shit, dude, why didn’t you _tell_ me,” Tweek exclaims, and starts frantically digging through his green backpack. Out comes a textbook, then the binder he hit Clyde with, both tossed carelessly on the floor. “I brought leftovers today, Jesus!”   
“Tweek’s parents have a coffee shop,” Token explains, just as Tweek thrusts a paper bag out at Craig, “So he sometimes brings leftover pastries to share with –”  
“Take it,” Tweek yells, interrupting him. “Hide it in the sling if you’re a slow eater! Then you can eat it in homeroom!”  
Craig’s stomach contracts painfully, because whatever is in that bag smells delicious. “Okay,” he says, mind instantly made up, and takes the paper bag from Tweek. His fingertips brush over Tweek’s knuckles for a second. As if he’d just been given an electric shock, Craig yanks his hand back, and the sudden movement makes Tweek jump.  
“Uh, I mean,” Craig mutters, as he busies himself stuffing the bag inside the sling like Tweek suggested, “Thanks.”   
“Don’t mention it, _Jesus,”_ Tweek splutters, waving his thanks away.   
“Everyone! Stop shoving and let Jimmy through already!” Craig turns his head and recognizes the kid who just spoke – Kyle. It’s hard to forget someone with that kind of intensely red hair; he looks like a teenaged Pennywise for God’s sake. “I can’t believe how selfish you all are,” Kyle goes on, “There are students with _disabilities_ at this school!”   
Jimmy, meanwhile, is breathing through his nose, and turning kind of red in the face. “Dude,” Token is saying, putting a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, “Just leave it.”   
“Disabilities like Kyle’s permanent foot-in-mouth syndrome,” Tweek mutters, just loud enough for their little huddle to hear – and that, finally, makes Jimmy relax.   
“C’mon,” Clyde jerks his head at the door, “Let’s at least get some seats in the middle, so Craig can, uh…”  
“M-masturbate,” Jimmy fills in, as he hobbles past Craig towards the door. And it’s like Craig can _see_ him swallow all that bile and embarrassment, literally turning his frown upside down.   
“That depends on how hot the teacher is,” he fires back, which makes Jimmy cackle happily. 

Thanks to Kyle – no wait, shouldn’t that be _because of_ Kyle? Anyway, since Kyle ran his mouth off and the five of them got in earlier than expected, they score seats together. Not on the same row, but in a little huddle; which is actually better for stuff like passing notes. Clyde and Jimmy sit on the second row, with Craig and Token behind them on the third row. Tweek claimed the only fourth-row seat, mostly because he’d feel weird – _weird?_ More like nervous enough to _actually die_ – sitting next to Craig. If Craig’s the kind of guy who wants to talk to you during class, Tweek and his nerves wouldn’t exactly be the ideal conversation partner. Besides, sitting behind the guy means Tweek gets to _study_ him – on the sly, of course. He still hasn’t taken his hat off, so now Tweek’s biggest problem is his urge to snatch it off of Craig’s head. That probably wouldn’t go down too well, though. And it’s not like he had the right _opening_ back there to explain that he’s got ADHD.   
“All right, you little shits,” their homeroom teacher is saying, turning from the blackboard to face them with a swish of black skirts, “Shut up this instant, or I’ll be handing some lines out!”  
Tweek hears a sharp intake of breath from Craig, and realizes that what he _should_ have taken the time to explain, was _actually_ Mrs Garrison. Possibly the most incompetent teacher in the school, if not the world; and weirdly obsessed with how schools were run in Victorian England. Mrs Garrison dresses like a Victorian school marm too; with all the lacy black dresses and corsets that involves. She had gender reassignment surgery rather late in life; so that’s another advantage to wearing the big black bonnet that comes with the outfit – it hides the bald patch.   
He can see Craig turn to Token with a look of wild-eyed disbelief on his face; while Token shakes his head ever so slightly and holds his finger over his lips. Mrs Garrison is awfully fond of making people write lines, and Tweek can’t quite see her giving a damn about Craig’s arm being broken.   
“It seems we have a new student, class,” Mrs Garrison is saying, fussing with the watch that’s pinned to the front of her gown. She’s wearing lacy fingerless gloves today, which is like, going that one surreal touch too far. Tweek can feel a giggle starting to tickle his throat, and does his best to choke it back down. He doesn’t have _time_ for writing lines and detention. “Why don’t you tell the class a little bit about yourself, uh,” Mrs Garrison peers at a piece of card pinned to the front of the manila folder she carried in here, “Craig?”  
Craig pushes his chair back as he stands up, until it bumps against Tweek’s desk. For a second, he seems to be considering whether he should walk down to the front of the classroom or not; but then he obviously decides to keep Mrs Garrison at a sensible distance. Just as he’s about to open his mouth, the door slams open, and Tweek thinks, Shit. How could he have forgotten about _him?_ There he is, in the flesh – and there’s a lot of flesh to go around, when it comes to Eric Cartman.   
“Oh,” Cartman says, like he didn’t show up late at all, “Who’s the spic?”


End file.
